


Where Love Falls From The Trees

by nerdwegian



Series: Tumblr Prompts [6]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Con Artists, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1476874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdwegian/pseuds/nerdwegian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, no," Natasha says back. Clint can hear the smile in her voice. "I’m not his type. This one’s all yours."</p>
<p>(Tumblr prompt: What happens when Clint and Natasha are a team of con artists/thieves, and Clint goes in to "seduce the rich guy?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Love Falls From The Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [chaneen](http://chaneen.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

They’ve barely been in town for a week before Natasha announces that she’s found a new mark. Frankly, Clint would have preferred a little downtime—these things always take a few weeks, at least, and they just came from a two month con in Florida—but he can understand Natasha’s drive.

If he stops to think about it long enough, Clint feels the same way.

That’s why, when he returns to their apartment (“their”—the owner is currently on sabbatical, and it hadn’t taken Natasha more than two fake IDs and a sob story to get her hands on the keys) to find a note directing him to a club in Hollywood, he doesn’t hesitate.

*

He gets past the bouncer with the usual bribe. Easy. Inside the club, it’s dim and crowded, and the music is just loud enough that conversation is rendered mostly irrelevant. Clint weaves his way between socialites and celebrities and finally comes to a stop near the stairs leading to the restrooms, where the music is just a touch quieter.

"One o’clock," Natasha says from behind him, and Clint doesn’t have to look to know that she’s got her back to him, casually sipping a drink. Probably something colorful and fruity; she says it helps her look the part, though Clint suspects it’s her favorite thing about this kind of sting.

Looking across the room, Clint spots the mark Natasha has selected. He sits in a booth by the wall, a single beer in front of him, and he looks vaguely out of place at the club. His expensive three-piece suit is just a touch too fancy, and there’s something about his body language that makes Clint think he’s looking at the other patrons as mostly beneath him. Probably a lawyer. Maybe a manager or producer, but he doesn’t look like Hollywood elite. Definitely loaded, though.

"Have fun," Clint mutters.

"Oh, no," Natasha says back. Clint can hear the smile in her voice. "I’m not his type. This one’s all yours."

Clint pauses, momentarily surprised, because he hasn’t been point man for one of their cons for months and months. For a moment he feels something almost like excitement, and doesn’t that speak volumes about the sad state of his sex life lately?

"A little warning would have been nice," he grumbles.

"Are you saying you can’t improvise?"

"That’s not what I’m saying."

"Good. Then get to work. Try not to have so much fun that you blow it."

She neglects to make the obvious pun, which Clint feels is a damn shame. There’s also far too much smug amusement in her voice for Clint’s liking, and he’s painfully aware that she knows exactly how long his dry spell has lasted.

"I’m not gonna blow it," he snaps, irritably.

"Prove it," Natasha challenges.

Clint sighs. At least it’ll help him be convincing. And Clint’s dealt with high-powered attorneys and celebrity wranglers before. He knows this guy’s type.

"Piece of cake," he says.

He doesn’t get a response, but he knows Natasha is rolling her eyes at him all the same. Ducking into the bathroom, Clint finds an empty stall and ditches the stolen jacket he’s wearing, in favor of rumpling his shirt a little and rolling up his sleeves. He loosens his tie a little, and then undoes the top two buttons.

In the club, the mark is still nursing his single beer. Clint walks up without preamble and slides into the booth opposite him. “Hi,” he says, giving the mark his most winning smile.

"No," the mark says.

Clint blinks a little, surprised. “No what?”

"No," the mark repeats. "I’m not interested. Please leave."

For a moment, Clint wonders if he’s misheard the mark over the loud music. He isn’t sure how to react. He’s been rejected before, yes, but never so fast or so bluntly.

"That’s—a little harsh," Clint says, smiling to take the sting out of the words. "You haven’t even heard my pitch yet."

"I prefer the direct approach," the mark says. "I’ve found it to be the most efficient way of handling most situations." He’s smiling just a little, though, like maybe he’s secretly amused by Clint and trying not to show it.

"Let me see," Clint says, tilting his head. "No wedding ring, so you’re not married. You don’t look like you’re waiting for a date or for a business partner. This place seems like an odd choice if you want peace and quiet." Clint narrows his eyes and smirks. "Drug dealer?"

The mark looks vaguely indignant, but his smile also grows a fraction. “I am not a drug dealer. Nor am I waiting for one.”

"Are you sure?" Clint teases. "Because you seem a little tense, dude, some weed might do you good."

"Is that an offer?" the mark asks, surprising a laugh out of Clint.

"I’m Clint," Clint says, reaching a hand across the table.

The mark hesitates for a moment, before sighing, inaudible over the music, but Clint sees his shoulders and chest rise and fall with it. “I’m Phil,” he says, shaking Clint’s hand.

"Phil," Clint repeats, just trying the name out in his mouth. "It’s a nice name. It suits you."

"If this is part of your pitch, you’re never going to get me to revise my answer," Phil says.

"It’s not," Clint says hurriedly, laughing again and once again being surprised when he finds it to be genuine. "Will you make me leave if I ask what a guy like you is doing in a place like this?"

"No, but _I_ might leave,” Phil mock-threatens, his tone making it clear that he’s not actually planning on leaving anytime soon. After a pause, he shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “My coworker actually forced me to come here.”

Clint arches an eyebrow. “Forced? Either she’s very strong or very scary, and either way I feel like I should tread lightly.”

"Not a bad idea," Phil agrees. "Anyway, apparently I’m a hopeless workaholic."

"What do you do?" Clint asks.

"I’m a lawyer," Phil answers, and Clint gives himself a mental high-five.

Out loud, Clint says, “Ah, the workaholic lawyer.”

"A bit of a cliche, maybe," Phil admits. "So my coworker has told me that I need to unwind. And for some reason, she keeps dragging me to this place."

"I’ll help you unwind," Clint says suggestively, waggling his eyebrows, and Phil laughs.

"Your pitch could use some work."

"But cheesy seems to work so well on you," Clint argues, and he notices that Phil doesn’t ask about Clint at all. "Got you laughing, anyway."

Phil’s smile dims for a moment, almost as if he hadn’t realized he was laughing. “I feel like I should say something discouraging, now.”

"I’ll just have to try harder," Clint says confidently, leaning on the table and smirking in a way that he knows makes him look sexy. "A different approach maybe? I’m famous. I have a huge dick. I give amazing blowjobs. Any of these working for you?"

Phil, who had been raising his glass towards his mouth, puts it back down before it gets there, so he can shake his head and laugh again. “I refuse to believe that.”

"No, really," Clint says, "I do have a huge dick and I give amazing blowjobs."

"I don’t think you’re famous," Phil clarifies, apparently choosing to completely ignore both the dick and the blowjob comment.

"I could be famous."

"But you’re not."

"No, I’m not," Clint sighs, looking at the crowd of very shiny Hollywood people. "Thank god."

"So what are you, then?" Phil asks. It’s asked so quietly than Clint almost misses it over the music, and when he looks at Phil again, his smile has changed. For a moment, Phil doesn’t look like a rich lawyer on a power trip. For a moment, Phil looks like he’s just—tired. His eyes are locked on Clint’s, and Clint swallows, momentarily thrown off kilter.

"Great in bed?" Clint tries. He manages a smile, reminding himself that Phil is a mark and this is a job and nothing more.

Whatever shadow passed over Phil’s face is gone just as fast as it appeared, and he smiles apologetically at Clint. “Time’s up. The answer is still no.”

Clint’s chest tightens in confusion and disappointment. It’s been at least a year since either of them have failed to land a mark. Natasha is never going to let him live this down.

Still, there’s something in Phil’s expression, the way his smile curves and the way his eyebrows draw together just a little bit, that makes him seem—regretful. Clint gets the distinct feeling Phil doesn’t want to turn him away.

"Ouch," Clint says, with the air of a man who’s got a bruised ego but is trying not to show it. He doesn’t have to pretend. "Well, it was nice talking to you, anyway, Phil. I’ll just be, uh…"

He gestures haphazardly out to the club and slides out of the booth. It’s awkward enough already, no need to linger. He can’t quite meet Phil’s eyes again, but he thinks Phil might not be smiling anymore.

"Sorry to bother you," he mumbles, even though he doesn’t think Phil can hear him over the music, and then he does his best to disappear in the crowd.

Clint feels sheepish and slightly humiliated. He dreads the teasing he’ll suffer for this—and okay, he’s disappointed, too. Now that the idea of sex had been brought up and then snatched away from him, he feels infinitely more frustrated than before.

Frowning, Clint finds a spot near a hallway, presumably leading to offices in the back, where he can observe the crowd. It’s fairly dark in the corner he’s chosen, and it feels like permission to scowl as much as he wants without anyone noticing, while waiting for Natasha to show up again.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, just watching the crowd, but just as he's wondering where the fuck Natasha is, he spots her. She’s holding court over by the bar, perched delicately on some dude’s knee and holding onto the tie of another. She throws her head back a little as she laughs, before taking a sip of her colorful drink.

Natasha seems three sheets to the wind, but Clint knows she’s not. She’ll flirt and make sure her marks get good and drunk, and later in the evening she’ll relieve them of their wallets.

Clint’s scowl deepens; he can’t help it. It’s all an act, and he knows it’s all an act, but it seems damn unfair that he gets turned down and manages to screw up the job Natasha sent him to do, and won’t get laid as a result, while all Natasha has to do is wink, and guys are falling over themselves to be with her.

Clint scoffs and decides to head home. He figures he can wallow in self-pity while he waits for Natasha. He’s just pushed off the wall, when a familiar voice says, “Oh. Hi.”

Phil’s standing in front of him, with slightly wide eyes. For a moment, Clint thinks he might be blocking Phil’s way, but Phil doesn’t move. Instead his eyes roam over Clint’s body, and his nostrils flare as his chest expands with a sharp inhalation.

Clint doesn’t think too hard about it. He just reaches out and grabs Phil, and hauls him in for a kiss.

For a split second, he thinks Phil might protest, but then surprisingly strong arms wrap around him, and Phil kisses back—and then things get a little hazy.

Phil kisses like he’s drowning and Clint’s air. Deep, hot kisses that make Clint instantly hard in his pants, and they stumble sideways, crashing into the wall, before Phil unceremoniously shoves at Clint until he’s got his back to the wall and Phil pressed up against his front. At least one of them is breathing heavily. Clint thinks it might be him because he feels like he can’t get enough air into his lungs. Phil’s fingers dig into his shoulders as he grinds his hips against Clint, and Clint can feel how hard Phil is. Clint groans, mostly inaudible, but the vibrations travel from his chest to Phil’s, and Phil moves his hips again.

Clint clutches at Phil’s fancy-ass suit jacket with one hand, the other pushing underneath it to settle at the small of his back, and he has to remind himself that seriously groping Phil’s ass in public like this is just a little tackier than he will let himself get, no matter how badly he wants to.

When they break apart, Phil’s looking at Clint with wide eyes, like he can’t believe what just happened, and Clint’s about to smirk and give him some cheeky comment—when two things happen nearly at once.

Phil’s head snaps around and he pushes away from Clint at the same time as he yells, to seemingly no one, “I see him, I see him!”

Just a moment later, a man comes sprinting out from the hallway leading to the offices, and Phil—

Clint doesn’t have time to react before Phil _leaps_ and full-on body checks the running dude, knocking him to the ground.

"Holy shit!" Clint yells.

"What the fuck!" the no-longer-running dude yells.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Kane," Phil yells, as he flips Mr. Kane onto his stomach, wrestles his arms behind his back, and then cuffs them with the freakiest looking sci-fi handcuffs Clint’s ever seen.

"What the hell! Are you a cop? I’ve got rights, man!" Mr. Kane hollers, and a few other club patrons have started taking notice now.

"I’m not a cop," Phil says, "I’m Agent Phil Coulson with SHIELD. You’re a hard man to find, Mr. Kane."

Clint’s never even heard of SHIELD. He wonders if someone’s getting Punk’d and glances around for cameras, but can’t see anything.

Phil tilts his head oddly and seems to talk to nobody again, and it takes a second for Clint to realize that he’s got a radio or something—probably one of those little ear things they have in movies. “Target restrained,” Phil’s saying. “Send them in.”

"What the hell, Phil?" Clint gets out, and then the music cuts as the doors burst open and approximately fifty gazillion people with bulletproof vests, helmets and big-ass guns—also very sci-fi looking—swarm the already crowded club.

Phil looks up at Clint from where he’s crouching over Mr. Kane’s squirming figure, and winces a little.

"So, uh, there’s probably things I should tell you."

Clint takes a deep breath and nods. “Yeah. Probably.”

If nothing else, at least now he can blame this on Natasha. She’s the one who picked the mark, after all.

End.


End file.
